


Cornucopia

by Gement



Series: Superbat Saturdays [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is Bad at Enjoying Things, Bruce Wayne is Not a Quitter, Clark Kent is a Midwestern hospitality monster, Dom Clark Kent, Except for the X-ray Vision and the Flying, Feeding Kink, Fisting, Food Kink, Grumpy Bruce Wayne, Hand Feeding, Home Cooking, M/M, Realistic Kink, Riding, Sensual Play, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25789060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gement/pseuds/Gement
Summary: "You want to take care of me." Bruce squeezed his hand. "I am prepared to be taken care of within an inch of my life."Clark beamed. "I brought pie."(In which we learn how far Clark will go to feed his loved ones, that Bruce Wayne will try anything once if he's bored out of his mind, and that there is such a thing as too much butter.)
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Superbat Saturdays [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642783
Comments: 28
Kudos: 90





	Cornucopia

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even go here, and yet, here I am. (Thanks to betas [melancholic_brisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melancholic_brisa) and [Internerdionality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Internerdionality).)
> 
> [[[ Content advisory: This is a one-shot. Series readers accustomed to my usual kink spectrum, note the tags. A more detailed list than usual of what does and does not happen is in the endnote. ]]] 

## 🌞 🍳

"Is there anything else I can get you?"

Bruce did not glare at the man hovering (metaphorically, for the moment) by his bed. "No. Thanks. You should get to work." _And stop staring at me like I'm fragile just because my motor functions are temporarily disrupted._

"Yeah." Agreement was not followed by action.

"Did _you_ want something?"

"I, uh. I did have something in mind. I. It's, um. It's not required, obviously, I meant it about taking care of you without any hidden agenda, and I don't want to make that weird, but since you're off your feet anyway . . ." Clark Kent, a 38-year-old man with X-ray vision and impossibly good hearing, who had investigated vice dens in two different professional capacities, was blushing and looking over his unnecessary glasses at Bruce as if it was endearing. Maybe it was still slightly endearing.

"Spit it out."

"I'd like to . . . feed you. By hand."

Bruce glanced at his half-finished breakfast tray. It was a harmless enough kink, and his hand-eye coordination was so far out of true that eating was an effort. He set down his fork. "Sure."

Clark looked at his hands. "Not just. I mean, this would be nice too, but." He took a deep breath. "It's a fetish. People will feed each other more than is . . . comfortable."

"You want to stuff me."

He nodded without making eye contact.

"You know my body only meets my demands because I optimize it."

"I do."

Bruce ate a great deal to fuel his muscle mass and recuperation. Lean protein, a careful mix of fruits and vegetables, sparing starches. Most of his sugar intake was alcohol substitutes at public events. On the job, specially formulated food bars kept his blood sugar steady and added necessary supplements. Alfred might transform it into culinary art, but at the end of the day it was a pile of fish, legumes, and greens with a bow tie on top.

"How long have you wanted to see me break that?"

Clark took off his glasses and looked at Bruce with full dizzying intensity. "Forever," he said. "Basically forever."

Bruce sighed. "Help me finish my eggs and I'll think about it."

## 🍞

Clark resisted the urge to slow down time for himself as he felt the warmth of herbed scrambled eggs on his fingers and watched Bruce accept them from him. Perfectly normal breakfast with a twist. Bruce ate. Clark helped.

Bruce had agreed to it so easily. Clark had been braced for a snarl or a dismissive laugh at the concept of someone else controlling Bruce's food, even for a dozen bites, let alone Clark's fantasies of filling him up. Hope was tempting, but Clark had to appreciate the moment for what it was. If this was the closest he might get, he shouldn't spend it wishing for more.

 _I'll think about it_ , coming from Bruce, was a solid maybe. If the answer was no, he wouldn't have danced around it. As breakfast went on and Bruce stayed relaxed, the hope grew.

Bruce asked some questions. Clark answered them. No, he didn't want to make Bruce throw up. No bondage. Yes, sex. Bruce didn't sound disgusted, or even like he had a preference. He was familiar with the fetish and was working through a checklist in his head, mapping the terrain before choosing a strategy. _He was familiar with the fetish._

"So. Your place?" Ah. They were skipping right past declarations of consent and into implementation. Classic Bruce.

Clark imagined it. Bruce in his tiny, well-worn bedroom, griping about the thread count of his sheets, looking more and more dim and relaxed in the cozy apartment. Letting Clark surround him utterly with home. It was a generous offer.

"Here, I think. I want you as comfortable as possible. Other than the obvious, I mean. This is about taking care of you." He picked up the last lump of scrambled egg and brought it to Bruce's lips.

Bruce held it in his mouth for a moment, eyes closed, before chewing and swallowing. Usually he ate like a machine. It made Clark's breath catch to know that he was taking this seriously. Even if Bruce was just humoring him, he understood the point.

"You want some toast?"

Bruce eyed his plate. "I figured I'd save my appetite."

"I'd appreciate it if you skipped lunch."

"Of course. I'll clean out. Give you as much room as possible to work."

"Thank you. But it's not work."

The work would be covering a full day in the office while getting the crockpot and oven going, shopping for what he couldn't make, clearing out the fridge . . . There was a lot of prep to do.

Clark leaned in for a kiss. "I just want to watch you feel it." He tore off an inch of buttered whole wheat sourdough. "One bite?"

## 🕰️ 🥧

Bruce scowled at the electronics stacked haphazardly on his nightstand. His typing was clumsy. Touchscreens were out of the question. He'd done a lot of reading and dictated some notes. His thoughts were too scattered for chemistry or statistical analysis, and the results were too important for him to make mistakes out of arrogance.

He'd sent some emails for the company and the foundation, but couldn't push that when he was supposed to be slacking off in the Florida Keys. He'd refereed one sibling disagreement by the expedient of shouting down the hall, but they'd just gone to fight somewhere out of earshot. He couldn't pursue it without using the surveillance mics. He did not turn on the surveillance mics.

He couldn't go for a run or pace or spar, not even mat work. He couldn't look forward to patrol. He had done all the stretches and isometric exercises he could manage in bed with an elevated ankle. Three times. He'd napped twice. He dutifully used the temporary handrail when he needed to walk to the en suite.

Recovery took a lot of energy. More so, the older he got. On top of that, he was ravenous.

He couldn't get Clark's big, hopeful smile out of his mind. It was a welcome replacement for his hazed memory of Superman's face when dragging Batman out of the toxic fumes. A substantial improvement on Clark's stony expression when Bruce had subsequently managed to sprain his ankle trying to get out of bed in the Javelin medbay.

"When we get back earthside," Clark had hissed in his ear as he hauled him up from the deck, " _you are going to let me take care of you_."

Bruce had agreed. He owed him that.

A surprisingly heavy creak on his balcony told him supper had arrived. Clark opened the doors and carried in a full-size refrigerator.

Bruce blinked at it. Perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew here. "Clark. That's a refrigerator."

"Yes." Clark looked around. "Hm. Can I move the table out of the breakfast nook?"

"That's the refrigerator from your kitchen."

Clark glared at him. "Most people only have the one, Bruce."

Ah. A money thing. "I didn't mean — Yes. Rearrange whatever you like."

"Thanks." Clark zipped over to give him a quick kiss, then went back to situating a full-size refrigerator in the adjoining room. A gleaming crystal table came in from the balcony next, along with a cast-iron skillet and a shimmering translucent cube that Bruce guessed was the Kryptonian equivalent of a microwave. Those stayed by the bed. A stack of snap-top food containers and a canvas bag that clanked with dishes and cutlery disappeared into the breakfast nook. Finally, Clark brought in a neatly folded quilt and put it under the table.

Bruce watched all of this with some concern. "Exactly how much do you expect me to eat?"

Clark's eyes widened. "Oh, not _everything_ , obviously. You'd die. Just a little of this, a little of that. And if it's really too much, you can ask to stop, of course. We'll take breaks, we . . ." He looked around. "I suppose this was a little intimidating."

"A little."

"It's not supposed to be. I didn't mean to scare you." Clark sat down beside him and touched his cheek. "I just . . ."

"You want to take care of me." Bruce squeezed his hand. "I am prepared to be taken care of within an inch of my life."

Clark laughed sheepishly. "Thank you. And tell me, okay? If you need a break, or . . ."

"I'm starving, Clark."

Clark beamed. "I brought pie."

Bruce's mouth watered. "Dessert first? Scandalous."

"Ma would kill me if I managed to turn you off the family recipe," Clark said from the fridge. There was a rattle of dishes. He returned with a wedge of pie and a bowl of whipped cream. "But this isn't hers. I baked it this afternoon." He placed the pie in the alien cooking device; the surface lit up. He stroked his fingers across it, possibly spelling something. After a few seconds, the pie emerged, flaky and steaming.

Clark scooped up a slice of apple and a fragment of crust, dipped them in whipped cream, and offered them to Bruce with a certain amount of ceremony. Bruce took a mindful breath of fruit, cinnamon, vanilla, and buttery pastry. "Thank you." He pulled the whole bite into his mouth at once and closed his eyes in honest bliss.

Clark took two bites while Bruce chewed the first, then offered him another. 

"Are we matching bite for bite?" Bruce asked around the next mouthful.

"We're eating together," Clark said in the patient voice usually reserved for explaining new concepts to children. "It's important. It's part of . . . being people."

Bruce tried to curb his irritation. He didn't need one more passive-aggressive nudge about his absence from Justice League cafeteria gossip sessions.

"It's important to me, Bruce. It's connection."

"Sorry." Bruce finished swallowing. He knew, deeply, that Clark needed to control this. Clark needed him to ask nicely and take what he was given. Bruce had been raised with an iron respect for table manners, no matter whose table or how arcane the manners, and could do this. He could cede control. "Crust and cream, please."

Bruce got four bites of pie to Clark's six. It was delicious, but asking for more would be a tactical error.

Clark touched the lapels of Bruce's silk pajamas. "I'd like to undress you." He waited for assent, but it wasn't a request. When he got a nod, he unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it from Bruce's shoulders. Bruce cooperated, shifting his weight and reaching his arms, but carefully abstained from trying to do it himself.

He arched his hips as Clark pulled the pajama bottoms down over his thighs and hardening cock. Silk whispered across his feet without even jostling the pressure bandage on his ankle. Clark kissed the head of his cock with just a flick of tongue. "Hold that thought for later."

He produced the quilt, laid it out in the center of the bed, and placed Bruce on top of it in an undignified but remarkably smooth motion. The quilt was a faded checkerboard of denim and quilting cotton. By the wear patterns, the denim had been cut from retired work jeans.

"Picnic blanket?" Bruce lifted his head and shoulders so Clark could replace his pillows. Clark put him at a fairly high angle, lounging comfortably with good back support.

"I figured I'd spare your sheets. One less thing to think about."

Clark must have been stewing on the details of this fantasy for years. The full version would include a sentimentally significant shade tree to protect their picnic from blazing rural sunshine. Bruce relaxed onto the rough but surprisingly comfortable texture of the denim. He admired Clark's naked body when the technicolor suit whisked away.

"Let me just make you up a plate," Clark said.

"Can I have a kiss first?"

Their kiss tasted like cinnamon. Bruce settled in as Clark covered a table grown from alien crystal technology with Tupperware and foil-covered dishes. When the microwave opened, the air filled with savory smells.

Bruce inspected his options. Slow-cooked beef, moist with gravy. Mashed potatoes, cornbread, and something that was probably oven-baked macaroni and cheese. Nary a vegetable in sight. "Those potatoes are half butter, aren't they."

"Butter and heavy cream." Clark sounded almost gleeful. He sat down with his leg pressed against Bruce's ribs.

"Yes, please."

Bruce sucked mashed potato from Clark's fingers and focused on sensation. He looked at the ceiling, dissecting the flavors. "Garlic, Parmesan, rosemary. Is that buttermilk?"

"It is." Clark looked pleased and offered him a pinch of beef so tender that the strands of meat were falling away from each other between his fingers.

Bruce put his hands on Clark's skin to divert his restless, frustrated energy. He slowed his breathing. He paid methodical attention to texture, to flavor, to body language, to the brush of skin against skin. He opened his senses. No detail was beneath his notice. If he could do it for a crime scene, he could do it for Clark. His effort was rewarded; Clark almost glowed with pleasure every time Bruce licked crumbs from his lips.

They finished that plate and started another. Gnocchi, pork meatballs, hushpuppies, and individual bites of rare steak. The last, Clark seared in the cast iron with blue cheese and garlic. He heated the iron to almost glowing first, but didn't bother with a pot holder for either his hand or the place the pan rested on the iridescent table.

"I didn't make the meatballs," he said apologetically before popping one into his own mouth. "Or the hushpuppies. Not enough time. They're from the best greasy spoon in a hundred miles of home, though. Couldn't do 'em better if I tried."

That meant seven dishes so far that Clark had cooked in the last 12 hours. Expressing any kind of surprise at either Clark's skill or his effort would be a deathly insult. "You don't usually cook much." Bruce opened his mouth for half of a hushpuppy.

"Not for myself, no. Not worth the fuss. Food's for sharing." Clark's accent had broadened to full Kansas.

Bruce's appetite finally reached the tipping point where he was pleasantly interested instead of impatient for the next bite. He did his best to block out his automatic running estimates of nutrient balance and glycemic load, both of which were sounding the warning klaxons usually reserved for chemical attacks or a plane nosediving toward the ocean. He chewed and swallowed. "Thank you for sharing it. What's on the beverage menu?"

"For this course, your choice of decent beer or real sugar Coke. In deference to your delicate palate, I did not bring authentic cans of the cheap stuff." Clark's tone was light, but his expression was guarded.

"It would be wasted on me, I'm afraid. Coke, please." Before he accepted the straw poking out of the glass bottle, he said, "I won't make fun of your food, Clark. Or your home. Much."

Clark's shoulders relaxed.

Bruce sipped. The sharp acid was a good palate cleanser, and the carbonation would help with the brick-heavy food Clark was piling into him one relentless bite at a time. The blast of cane sugar shocked his tongue and would send his blood sugar into a tailspin soon enough.

He was not here to stay well-regulated. He braced himself, took a long pull, and let the intensity flood his mouth. He was thirsty. He gulped, and let it sting his gums. He drank a third of it before Clark moved the straw out of reach, dribbling stray cold drops across his chest.

"Easy. Slow down. You don't have to prove anything." Clark licked up the spilled drink, dragging his tongue across a nipple as he went.

Bruce let his eyebrows speak for him.

"You don't. And you don't have to overthink it. I know that won't stop you, but just . . . Don't." Clark put a large bite of gnocchi in his mouth before he could retort.

When that plate and the Coke bottle were both empty, Clark said, "You want seconds of anything before we switch regions?"

Bruce thought about it. "A second slice of pie, please. While I can still appreciate it."

Clark brought the same size wedge as before, but as someone with a long history of cheating at drinking games, Bruce could see he was taking much smaller bites for himself and raising the whipped cream ratio on the bites he offered Bruce. He considered pointing this out and telling Clark to just bring more pie, but that would be a petty attempt to take control and thus a violation of etiquette. He ate his pie.

He'd judged his pacing well. If he were at an unavoidable public meal, this was the point at which he could enjoy dessert, but then be glad to be done. He enjoyed each bite thoughtfully, in its proper place along the appetite curve. He sighed as he sank his teeth into the last sliver of crust, content.

Clark scooped up a large dollop of whipped cream on his thumb and offered it to Bruce's lips. They watched each other in silent challenge for a moment. Bruce wrapped his mouth around Clark's thumb and sucked it clean.

They did it again. And a third time. The cream coated Bruce's teeth and tongue, impossible to clear away by mere swallowing. It would break the pleasant rhythm of variety to feed him the rest of the bowl, but Clark's expression said he was tempted.

Clark set the bowl aside and kissed him. "Thank you. I thought it would be nice to do a Silk Road theme."

He brought a smaller plate and a milky bubble tea. He didn't stab the oversized straw through the lid of the cup until he was settled beside Bruce again. "Hong Kong. It's a bit of a menagerie."

"Like city, like cuisine." Bruce accepted a bite of roast duck. Brown bean sauce, heavy on the five-spice. Fried sticky rice. Then some kind of seafood, drowning in whole Sichuan peppercorns. He studied it before opening his mouth.

"Crawfish. I thought you'd appreciate an endorphin boost about now."

Bruce took a greedy bite. It was exquisite mouth-numbing agony. He chased it down with a sip of the bubble tea, then winced. "Condensed milk."

"Mm-hm." Clark's smile was more than a little malicious. "Have some of the boba."

He filled his mouth with the large, slippery pearls and sank his teeth in. "Honey," he said through his glued-shut mouth.

"The good stuff." Clark took a large slurp of it himself and rolled it in his mouth, chewing with clear enjoyment.

"More crawfish, please."

"Masochist."

"You knew that." Bruce let it burn until his eyes streamed and his nose ran. He kept his hands on the bed while Clark wiped his face.

Mongolia brought him airag, of course. The sour milk and even the faint tingle of alcohol of the traditional drink were a welcome change. Cubes of pan-seared mutton next, and tiny steamed dumplings.

Every mouthful was perfect, but he was slowing down. His agitation was long gone, along with his energy; his body informed him that after a meal this large, he was supposed to hibernate. He fought to stay present for the flavors.

Clark gave him smaller bites, with longer pauses between. He halved the miniature dumplings with his teeth, eating his own half of each one. His eyes were intent on Bruce's face as he offered a vividly orange drink. "Buckthorn juice. It's not too sweet."

It was not too sweet. Ascorbic acid scoured his mouth; he sighed in relief.

Clark swept a soothing hand across his chest, then trailed fingers down across his belly. He was waiting. He was waiting for permission for this next terribly personal step.

"Yes," Bruce said. He closed his eyes and relaxed as Clark slowly massaged his abdomen with the reverence usually reserved for breasts and buttocks. It did feel good. He groaned under his breath and shifted to recline further, making more room for his full stomach. Clark kissed along the center line from his navel to his throat, then nipped at his jaw.

"Thank you for this," Clark said in his ear. "I know it's not . . ."

"Don't overthink it." Bruce squeezed his hip. "Where are you taking me next?"

"Tibet."

"You're trying to kill me."

Clark didn't smile. "I'll be careful. I promise."

"Not in question." Bruce watched in dread resignation as Clark warmed the tea and beat yak butter into it until it was practically gravy.

"You can hold this one." Clark solemnly presented him with a miniature wooden drinking bowl filled to the brim with po cha; Bruce took it in both shaky hands and sipped, then held it out to be refilled.

Bruce had lived on butter tea for two months during his training. Caffeinated gravy for breakfast was the difference between life and death in the Himalayas. You didn't let someone's bowl run empty, even a stranger's, even an enemy's. And you never, ever turned it down. He sipped.

Between sips, Clark gave him folds of cold, thick noodles crusted in red chili. Bruce chewed, swallowed, sipped, sweated.

Another bite of noodle waited for him. He watched it, unblinking. "I need a minute," he finally said under his breath.

Clark smiled. "That's fine. Take your time." He ate the noodle and licked chili from his fingers. "One more sip."

Bruce sipped. Clark took the bowl from him and drained it in three large swallows before setting it aside. Bruce's system roiled in misguided sympathy.

Clark curled up beside him, slowly rubbing his belly. "Time for a break."

"Sorry."

"It's good, Bruce. Don't force it. This isn't about force."

"Finding edges," Bruce said. He didn't move his mouth much. The stiller he held, the easier it was to stay with the rising pressure and nausea. Lying back further would be good, when he was steady enough to move.

"Yeah. And being close."

Clark massaged him quietly. He drowsed.

## 🍜

Clark watched Bruce's eyes flutter closed. He looked peaceful. Passive.

It was an illusion, of course. Bruce could never be passive. But for once in his life he was holding still and letting someone else make his decisions without kicking up an everliving fuss, which was close enough.

It had been a struggle for him. An enormous, precious gift: sincere surrender from someone who never backed down, who had built his entire identity on the bedrock of self-control. Seeing his body ease into acceptance had been like watching a glacier melt.

Clark kissed his temple, then left briefly to wash his hands and fetch things. In the five breaths that he was gone, Bruce flattened even more deeply into his pillow nest.

"Here," Clark said, and ran a crumbling chunk of ice across Bruce's lower lip. Bruce's mouth opened, barely, and he sucked it in with his lips. It was crunchy ice from a soft drink dispenser, easy to suck and chew. Holding up a restaurant's drink line for over a minute while he filled a bag had been awkward, but worth it. The moan when Bruce tasted cold water went straight to Clark's cock.

Clark bathed his face and neck with a cool cloth, then gave him a little more ice. Bruce lapped it from his fingers with greedy tongue and teeth.

"Easy. There you go."

Clark had the surreal impression of holding a baby bird in his hands, tiny and fragile and squawking at him to get its needs met. He smoothed away the tension lines in Bruce's face with icy fingers. Every motion, every small kindness got a grateful sigh.

"Would you like some soda?"

Bruce tensed slightly. Clark realized the disconnect and corrected his vocabulary.

"Not pop. Plain club soda."

"Yeah." Bruce's mouth didn't even move. His lips were slightly parted and shining. His breathing was shallow.

Clark nudged the straw between his lips and watched his throat work, one tiny sip at a time. He'd watched Bruce in mission mode chug a liter of water and keep going.

He glanced down to check again. Yes, still plenty of physical capacity. Bruce's body stress was mostly chemical signals, mouthfeel, and context, though he really should drink more liquid to wash it down. Clark let him sip for a few minutes, massaging slowly, feeling the muscles strain and shift under his fingers.

The curves of Bruce's abs were more pronounced than usual up near the diaphragm, pressed out from neutral by his solid stomach as much as they usually would be by an inhale. It wasn't soft; there was very little soft about Bruce. If anything, his body was harder, taut and stretched. When Clark pressed gently, it pressed back.

Bruce shivered once, flexed his throat to burp silently, and relaxed further yet. Examining his body like this, touching him, adjusting him one swallow at a time, was unbelievably intimate.

Bruce had taken every single thing Clark had put in his mouth without complaint or resistance, just honest reactions and finally submission to his inevitable limits. Clark felt giddy and a little power-drunk. He took away the club soda. Bruce didn't chase it; he opened his eyes a crack.

"That's looking a little better."

"Mm."

"No rush. We'll stay here a while."

Clark rubbed his thumb against Bruce's lower lip. That seemed fine. Two fingertips, also fine. Slowly, a millimeter at a time, he pushed his fingers between Bruce's lips. Bruce let out a breath, closed his eyes, and let his jaw slacken to offer parted teeth.

Clark ground his hips against Bruce's side, overwhelmed. He felt the warm, wet texture of Bruce's taste buds and pressed a little further.

Without warning, Bruce tightened his lips and sucked Clark down to the second knuckles, hot and hard. He opened his eyes and watched Clark with dogged determination. He worked his tongue.

Clark withdrew his fingers, petting Bruce's forehead to discourage him from following. "Shh. Easy. I'll take what I want. But thank you."

Bruce collapsed back into the pillows, panting.

"Can't go looking for your edge again if you never walk back from it, Bruce," Clark said softly.

Bruce glared at him, then consciously relaxed.

"Thank you. If you want a challenge, you could take a deep breath for me. Slowly."

He kept his hand spread across Bruce's skin and watched with fascination as Bruce worked through a full lung expansion, over and over, making his belly rise and round all the way down to the pubic bone with the same measured persistence that he'd displayed when chewing through the heartland and half of Asia. Sure enough, muscles settled and regulated. Food moved along a little faster. The body sorted itself out.

Some things you couldn't share with just anyone. Clark had thought he might go his whole life without sharing this particular thing with _anyone_ , not to this degree. Not more than a romantic evening on the couch with takeout, playing 'just one more bite.' Not Bruce letting him play havoc with his perfectly optimal innards.

He touched Bruce's lips again just to move them, to feel Bruce letting him move them. To enter Bruce's space. He worked two fingers into Bruce's mouth. Bruce watched him. He flexed his tongue, but it was a natural motion, not a performance.

Clark pressed in until he found tension, the depth where Bruce's body got too suspicious that this new invader might be more food. He withdrew a little and worked along that edge; he could go deeper after a few slow movements, then deeper again, almost back to the last knuckles.

They watched each other. Clark drew his fingers all the way out and then back in, trailing spit and making Bruce welcome him in all over again. Bruce's eyelids drooped, an excellent sign that he'd gotten comfortable with it. That was lovely. Clark stayed there a while.

Finally, he'd had enough of patience. He wiped his fingers on the blanket. "Let's try something a little bigger."

Bruce's eyebrows twitched. "Modest."

"It's one of my many excellent qualities." Clark straddled Bruce, being careful not to put any weight on him, and hovered forward to brush the head of his cock against Bruce's lips. "Taste."

Bruce licked at him, teasing around the edges of his foreskin and down the slit. He didn't try to suck, but he opened his mouth wider in invitation.

"Feeling good about that?"

"Yes." Bruce looked up at him. His mouth said, "Please." His eyes held an echo of what he'd said the last time, which was, _You'll give me that cock if you know what's good for you._

Clark was not small. About average length, in his limited experience, but thick enough that more than one partner had described it as a challenge. Fortunately, he liked the feel of teeth. And Bruce always liked a challenge.

"Let me do it." Clark shivered at the sensation of pushing in past Bruce's teeth and spreading his jaw open by girth alone. "You can suck. Just let me do it."

He didn't go deep right away. He let Bruce have the whole head, then pulled out again. Bruce made gentle attempts to convince him to stay, but didn't chase. Just the head, over and over, pushing down into Bruce's mouth. Bruce groaned in frustration. Clark wondered if he could stand to be patient enough to bring himself off like that, just Bruce wordlessly pleading for Clark to stuff his face.

Bruce curled his hands around the backs of Clark's thighs, which, compared to how carefully he'd kept them flat on the bed, was practically begging. Clark used his last scrap of resolve to glide the rest of the way in slowly instead of shoving. A millimeter at a time, leaning forward and sinking down until Bruce's body tightened under him. The hands on his thighs didn't back off, though, so Clark kept going, all the way down, pressing Bruce's head into the pillows.

Bruce used his discomfort, turning every involuntary squirm into a tongue flex, a tighter mouth, a movement of his head that came all the way up from the base of his spine. Clark stayed motionless until some of the movements were attempts to get more oxygen, then backed out. Bruce pulled a gulp of cool air around the sides of Clark's shaft, then groaned and wiggled his tongue.

"Greedy."

Bruce growled at him.

Clark put his hands on either side of Bruce's head to feel jaw muscles work against his palms, and he thrust slow and steady. Bruce writhed and sucked like a vacuum cleaner, but stayed in place. He had a trick most people couldn't manage, where he could keep swallowing with his throat no matter how hard his tongue was pinned. He swallowed on Clark like he was still starving.

"Beautiful. Your mouth. God." Clark was getting close. He could control his thrusts enough to protect a partner through the last part if he really had to, but holding still was easier. He drew back. "You can move."

Clark held perfectly still. Bruce snarled like an animal and surged upward, pinning Clark between the hands gripping his thighs and the mouth taking him all the way down to the tonsils, over and over. Hot, wet, voracious . . .

He came hard, holding his breath. Bruce pulled back to swallow on just the tip, so he'd taste every drop of come along the whole length of his tongue. Damn.

Clark slid down, letting his cock bump along Bruce's abs before resting just a little weight on his thighs. They kissed. Bruce's hands ranged everywhere, grabbing handfuls of his back and tugging at his hair.

"We could do that again," Bruce said after a few seconds, when Clark's body had settled.

"We could, huh?" Clark grinned. He slid down further to lick at Bruce's half-hard cock.

"It'll take real effort if you want results there," Bruce said. Then, more quietly, "And it'll lower my threshold for anything else."

"I know. Don't worry." Clark mouthed him gently.

He knew Bruce's reactions intimately. He knew what it took to get him up on a good day or a bad night, wired or exhausted, roof or bed. He even had data from the night before, fresh back from that disastrous mission. Bruce's coordination and balance were shot, but there was nothing wrong with his stamina.

That meant the way he lay unresponsive under Clark's tongue was entirely due to what Clark had done to him, and was about to keep doing to him. He rubbed Bruce's belly and got a sigh of pleasure. "How's that feeling?"

"Full. Bearable."

"Bearable just holding it together, or bearable ready for more?"

"I could eat," Bruce deadpanned. He tried to sit up, making a trade-off between the discomfort of crowded organs and the discomfort of trying to eat while horizontal; Clark rearranged his pillows to support him in a compromise between the two. "Where to?"

"Islamabad, by way of New Delhi."

"Mm. That's promising."

Clark escorted Bruce to the en suite, then started plating while he waited. Narrowing down the choices, even for two cities with relatively close cuisines, had been an impossible task. In the end, he'd just used his lunch break to walk down a couple of streets in the fading dusk and buy whatever smelled good.

He waited until he had Bruce safely back in bed to start the battered paneer sizzling in oil. He beat yogurt and ice together into a lassi, fairly thin because he wasn't actually a monster and he wanted Bruce to last longer. He popped the rest into the _fighaoliur_ and asked it for a slow simmer, heavy on the steam. When the light faded from the crystal and the riot of aromas spread out, Bruce looked interested.

"Here we go." Clark curled up with him again. "Just a bite or two each."

"Oh, is that all." Bruce lifted his head to smell the loaded plate. He pointed at the nihari. "That one, please." He slurped lamb stew from Clark's fingers and chewed with his eyes closed, then licked the gravy from his lips. "What's in the dumplings?"

"Lentils." Clark waited until Bruce had crushed one in his mouth to say, "They're pretty hot."

Bruce let his head fall back and rolled the bite in his mouth for a long moment before swallowing. "All right," he finally said, his voice grim. "Lassi, please."

Clark offered it, keeping a straight face. He'd made a salt lassi instead of sweet, and it was half froth and ice crystals. Bruce's look of shocked pleasure was perfect.

"Thank you." Bruce took a few more sips, then kept eating.

Clark watched him avidly. For someone who had to be so aware of his own body to survive, Bruce almost never seemed to live in it. It was another vehicle to him, to be tuned and augmented and polished, then flung against whatever came next, no matter the damage. Sex was an exception. Mostly. Sometimes. If he wasn't getting too competitive about it.

This version of Bruce who took two long inhales of the steam from the goat karahi before chewing slowly was mesmerizing. He asked for a little more of the blisteringly hot butter sauce from the chicken and sucked it from Clark's fingertips. He was _present_ , and even though he was slowing down already, he was appreciating every bite in a way that couldn't be faked.

"Is that a vegetable I see?"

"I'm not actually _opposed_ to vegetables," Clark said, and scooped up a bite of saag on a chunk of crispy paneer. He ate some himself before letting Bruce have it. "But I can always watch you eat vegetables."

Bruce nodded with his mouth full, acknowledging the point.

When they'd finished that plate, Clark set the half-empty lassi aside and spent a blissful few minutes just touching Bruce's skin while he was open and drowsy enough to really feel it. Bruce draped his arms over Clark's shoulders and shuddered silently at the licks on his nipples.

"We'll pass over Iran pretty lightly," Clark said. "I had to save at least a little space for Istanbul."

"Obviously."

He brought the small plate. Just crispy golden discs of fried potato and a few dollops of mushroom stew, and the shot glass of pale green verjuice. Bruce cleaned his plate and drank the rest of the lassi with increasingly stubborn determination, then eyed the tiny glass.

"This is technically an ingredient, really. But I thought you'd like it." Clark held it out for Bruce to take.

Bruce sipped cautiously, and his eyes widened. He tossed back the shot and sloshed it around in his mouth.

"Unripe grape juice. They use it in the same places as vinegar."

Bruce's mouth worked. The wide-eyed blinking he was doing suggested that he was looking into the next dimension, and what he had found there was sour.

"Good?"

He just nodded.

"I'm glad." Clark kissed him to taste it from his mouth.

## 🍛

Bruce focused on flavors. The more he paid attention to his mouth, and to Clark's eyes studying his mouth, the better he could tune out the overwhelming challenges further down.

Clark's effort was admittedly humbling. Three dozen dishes, counting the drinks. How could Bruce possibly turn away one or two mouthfuls of doner kebab in mint yogurt, when Clark had brought it from fucking Istanbul to serve it to Bruce with his own hands?

He chewed a sharp, tangy olive, spat out the pit, and sipped the boiling-hot tea from a clear mug which let it glow like a ruby sunset. He deconstructed a bite of fried fish with his tongue, flake by flake. Another olive, and all that remained on the plate was two chunks of baklava, one a large mouthful and the other barely a centimeter across.

Sweat prickled all over his body. He took a breath and sipped more tea. Slow, deep breaths. He focused on his mouth.

"One more bite of absolutely anything else, then baklava. End of the road."

He closed his eyes. "Crawfish, please."

He saved one peppercorn tucked away in his cheek until he'd eaten the crawfish and swallowed the rest whole, then bit down on it. He stayed with the splash of non-flavor; it felt like his entire mouth was vibrating. Heat rose from his face. He sipped tea. He looked at Clark, then nodded at the baklava.

Clark picked up the larger piece and put it in his own mouth whole, then held out the tiny one for Bruce to pull in with his tongue. Bruce's mouth was barely registering more than the crisp of the phyllo and the goo of the nuts and honey, which was for the best. He chewed, swallowed, and licked the drip of honey from his lower lip. He exhaled. He sipped tea.

"Thank you." Clark kissed him and gave him ice. It was heaven. "Time for a pit stop."

Bruce took a long moment in the bathroom. He didn't bother splashing cold water on his face; Clark would take care of that. He just needed a minute away from the center of superhuman attention. Fortified, he headed back out into the spotlight of Clark's adoration.

The pillows were reconfigured so Bruce would recline lower on the blanket, barely above flat except for his head. Clark had cleared away all visible food and aired the room of savory smells. The balcony door was open a crack for a refreshing breeze. That made everything easier.

Bruce lay back and savored the prospect of cool carbonation and a massage. He closed his eyes to appreciate rough terrycloth followed by the chill of evaporative cooling. Clark touched his body. More ice in his mouth. He stayed present. That was all he had to do, and it was making Clark incomprehensibly happy. He stayed present.

A can of soda water found its way into Bruce's hand and then was positioned near his mouth. Control over his own beverage, luxurious. A pillow under each knee eased his lower back, and his sprained ankle was at a good elevation. He heard a snap-top lid and tensed, to whatever extent that was still possible.

"Shh," Clark said. "It's okay."

Bruce opened his eyes. Clark was holding an entire stick of butter, which was the furthest possible thing from okay. Bruce's stomach lurched. He shook his head.

"It isn't going anywhere near your mouth, don't worry." Clark rubbed the stick in his hand, greasing his fingers.

"Not helpful."

"You'll appreciate the lube in a minute."

Bruce realized that at the same time as greasing his hand, Clark was smoothing the edges off the cube, making a tapered shape. "You are _not._ "

Clark paused. "Well, I was looking forward to a nice hour's break, but if you're set on skipping ahead to dessert . . ." He blinked at Bruce in feigned coltish innocence.

Bruce dropped his head back into the pillow. "Crisco is traditional."

"The Kent clan has firmly held beliefs on the subject of Crisco," Clark said. "I won't risk being disowned." He rubbed a teasing knuckle against Bruce's hole. "But if you're drawing a line here, I'll respect it, of course."

"Fuck." Bruce bit his lip. "Fine. Go ahead."

"I don't know. That doesn't sound like very enthusiastic consent."

"Pretty. Please."

"All you had to do was ask," Clark said brightly. He worked a slick finger up and in, then another in quick succession.

Bruce sipped his soda water and did his best to relax. He tried not to think about it as the equivalent of a cold, slick cock disappeared up his ass. The stretch felt good. Clark's skillful fingers felt good. Clark massaging his abdominal muscles felt wonderful.

So many positives to focus on. He sipped his water and panted as Clark added a fourth finger.

"There's ice to your left," Clark said in a soft, soothing voice. "It might not feel like it, but you're doing great."

"Hah." The container of ice was substantial. Bruce immediately budgeted a small handful to run over his face and throat for a shocking chill.

"Mmmm." Clark twisted his hand. "That's real nice. You're beautiful."

"Nnh."

Clark leaned forward and kissed Bruce's cock, then kept working his fingers.

Bruce could take a fist. He could even take Clark's fist, though they'd only tested that hypothesis a couple of times. He just had to breathe and let down the clenching voluntary muscles so Clark could keep working on the deeper resistance.

He wanted his good synthetic lube. He wanted a proper sling to relax in. He wanted to not be smelling melted butter. But outweighing all of that, he wanted to feel Clark's fist in him and keep seeing that rapturous look on his face. He breathed.

"Your picnic blanket will have a _permanent_ grease stain."

"You let me worry about that." Clark tucked his thumb in. Bruce went cross-eyed and wordless.

The unmistakable click of a lube bottle told him Clark wasn't _that_ much of a purist. Bruce sighed in relief at the slicker slide. A lighter lubricant against a heavier one was an effective trick for reducing binding between surfaces. He should bear that in mind when designing — "Nngh!"

Clark flexed his fingers. His knuckles were bumping up against Bruce's rim. "You're doing great."

Bruce relaxed and sipped more soda water. His stomach eased down from its prior acute alert state; he felt full, but not nauseous. Any sharp reports from further along, Clark immediately noticed and massaged out. Bruce still found casual observation of his anatomy unsettling, but if ever there was an appropriate use, this intimacy was it.

Impossibly, he dozed. Most of Clark's hand up his ass, three Thanksgiving dinners in his gut, and he still somehow lost situational awareness for a while. When his head cleared, there didn't seem to be much progress, and he was getting sore. "Tonight might not be the night," he said. "Extenuating circumstances."

"Might." Clark drew his fingers all the way out and back in to redistribute the lube. The bedroom smelled like the concession stand of a movie theater, which was ridiculous. "I think it will, though. You're making room for me. And speaking of making room . . ."

He pressed harder. Bruce bit back a loud groan.

"I conspired with Alfred. Full date night protocol. No monitoring anywhere in the house, and everyone not on patrol has found somewhere else to be."

He twisted his hand just so and pushed until his knuckles popped through. Bruce arched back and bellowed to shake the building.

"That's right," Clark said when Bruce had subsided to loud grunting. "You can take me. You can take it all."

Bruce gripped the blanket with both hands. It was probably at risk of tearing. He decided that was one of the things Clark could worry about. "Congratulations," he gasped. "I am well and truly stuffed. Augh!"

"You are." Clark smiled at him like the morning sun. "And you can take just a little more. But no rush." He moved his fist slowly.

When Bruce could manage words again, which took several minutes, he said, "You are trying. To kill me."

"Just fill you up. You're filling up for me just beautifully." Clark pulled back to the wrist, lubed his forearm again, and drove in.

Bruce let go. There was nothing his body could do about the merciless pressure except parse it as intensity. That was fortunately one of his most practiced and, in context, pleasurable skills. He let his limbic system take the wheel and found his body wracked with unexpected sobs. He hadn't cried like that since the last time he'd taken a knife to the thigh. Intoxicating.

"Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck." He grabbed Clark by both shoulders and squeezed hard enough that Clark stopped feeling like muscle and started feeling like sculpted marble.

"There. There we go." Clark stopped moving.

Bruce managed to open his eyes long enough to see Clark's delight, then went back to heady overload. His muscles thrashed and struggled. His body stayed in place to avoid changing the pressure in an unacceptable direction, which would be any of them.

Finally, he went still. He found a steady state where he could hold indefinitely as long as he didn't breathe too deeply.

"Deep breath."

"Fuck you."

Clark waited. Bruce breathed, convulsed all over again, breathed, whimpered, breathed.

"Thank you, Bruce."

"Uh-huh."

Clark worked his arm out slowly. Bruce grabbed him by the hair and screamed, partly for relief and partly because being free to make all the noise he had in him was so novel. He subsided, pelvis shocked and achingly empty, core muscles twitching and exhausted, throat hoarse.

Clark kissed his forehead. "That was gorgeous."

"Nn."

"And after that, this'll be a piece of cake."

Bruce opened his eyes. "Please tell me it's not cake."

"It's not cake. I didn't bring any cake."

It was not cake. It was the enormous anal plug that Clark had teasingly pointed out on a fetish site before he learned that Bruce wasn't much of a kidder. Usually too much of a time and effort commitment for Bruce's schedule, but if he had some downtime and was really looking for a stretch, it was a good challenge. And it was _somewhat_ smaller than Clark's forearm. He closed his eyes and let his legs fall a centimeter further apart rather than waste energy on banter.

Not that much smaller, at least experientially. Bruce groaned as it went in, and he breathed. The base was fat enough that closing his thighs would be impossible, if he had any inclination to try.

He barely twitched when Clark licked the length of his cock. It felt pleasant, but his nervous system had enough to deal with.

"I didn't forget," Clark said. He sucked gently. "I've been looking forward to this part."

"You've been looking forward to all of it."

"Yes." Clark pulled Bruce's cock ring over his balls and tucked his cock in. Silicone stretched; it was the tighter one, for occasions where staying up was a higher priority than staying comfortable. A minute or so of friendly sucking later, Bruce's erection was ready for action, even if the rest of him was watching from the sidelines.

In an enviable display of multitasking, Clark started stretching himself with one hand behind his back while washing and petting Bruce's face and torso with the other. Bruce raised a heavy arm to touch Clark's hip. One small connection he could control. He kept contact as Clark bent to suck his cock again; it perked up with more than mechanical interest.

"Last stop," Clark said, slicking Bruce up with, thankfully, the real lube.

"I thought Istanbul was the last stop," Bruce said, but he was complaining _pro forma_ ; dessert had always been a foregone conclusion.

"Gotta take you home at the end of the night." At something near human speed, Clark washed his hands and laid out small bowls, frosting over with condensation, to either side of Bruce's shoulders. "Mayfields dessert counter, downtown Gotham."

Clark could not have known that one of Bruce's earliest memories was of that department store, standing on the checkerboard tile and staring at the glass case, taller than he was, full of chocolates. He closed his eyes, squeezing them hard to keep them from watering, and centered himself. "What have we got?"

"Green tea ice cream." Clark pointed at a dish. "Chocolate hazelnut pudding. Mango sorbet. Coffee ice cream milkshake. And . . ." He produced a box of horrifyingly large bonbons. "Cream truffles."

Bruce was intimately familiar with those truffles. They melted in the mouth, and had to be kept chilled or the ganache would lose its shape at the lightest touch. "I hope you've cut one up."

"Way ahead of you."

Clark took a thin slice of chocolate, already drooping at the edges and leaving smears on his fingers, and placed it on Bruce's tongue. Then he took a whole one for himself, pausing to hold it in his mouth until it softened. "'Ese are amazing," he said around the truffle.

He straddled Bruce's hips, bumping their cocks together for a few easy slides. With a flagrant disregard for gravity, he mounted up, hands-free, and gradually pushed himself down to sit on Bruce's cock. His weight sank in a slow, hot slide until Bruce felt the additional pressure all through his strained system, then eased up. Again. Again. Bruce groaned.

"Preferences?"

"Mango first. Nn. And don't mix and match. One flavor at a time."

"Sure."

Bruce opened his mouth for a tiny orange sphere that had probably been scooped with a melon baller. Creamy, tangy, with a slippery slide. His blood sugar was long past being shocked by oversweet tastes. It was too much, but everything was too much, and the texture was good. He opened his mouth for a second one and twitched his hips under Clark's weight.

Nutella pudding was a thick, clinging assault on his senses, and he didn't go for seconds. Coffee milkshake helped clear his mouth. If he'd been asked the day before, the possibility of considering a milkshake a welcome palate cleanser would have been unimaginable.

Another slice of ganache was both delicate and unbearable. His cock pulsed urgently, straining against the ring. Clark bounced on him, flexing carefully, eating egregious quantities of dessert and then licking his fingers between dishes.

Green tea ice cream. Last one. He could do this. The grassy, slightly bitter matcha was a nice change, and it gave him enough control to play his final card. He understood enough about the workings of taboo to be confident in his prediction.

"Do you want to make me?"

Clark's face froze. His body tightened ever so slightly, and his next bounce landed harder. "I told you, it's not —"

"It's not force. I'll swallow anyway. Blocking other options isn't force."

The longing on Clark's face was almost tangible.

"One bite. I'm sure."

Clark picked up an intimidating lump of ice cream, one of the scoops he had intended for himself. Bruce opened his mouth. In it went. Clark set a fingertip under his chin, waiting for him to close it. Then he wrapped his clean hand around Bruce's mouth and nose, and he waited.

Bruce's mouth was too full to gulp and get it over with, especially while trying to avoid shocking his teeth or soft palate. He swallowed the melting runoff, working his tongue to speed it up. He had a good breath and plenty of time. He swallowed, swallowed, swallowed.

Clark sped up, breathing hard. He rode Bruce in quick, urgent thrusts. His hand pressed Bruce's head a fraction harder against the pillow.

Bruce kept his eyes open and locked on Clark's as much as possible, until the lump was small enough to swallow whole. Then the cold rebound hit his trigeminal nerve and he closed his eyes in momentary agony. The hand lifted.

"God, Bruce."

"S'good. I'm good," Bruce said through gritted teeth. His face wouldn't unclench yet.

"Did you just give yourself an ice cream headache for me?" Clark sounded awed, and his voice was ragged.

"Shut up and fuck me."

Clark shut up and fucked him. His hips were a jackhammer. Orgasm might be within reach. Just had to focus. Clark leaned to pick up a cream truffle.

"I can't. Sorry."

"You don't have to swallow. If you swallow, I'll just give you another one. Just open up for me."

Bruce opened. Clark popped the truffle in, then arched back, changing his angle and intensifying the slide on Bruce's cock. He started jerking himself off.

Bruce groaned around the mouthful. The chocolate was far too rich; he could barely stand to keep it pressed against his tongue. The pressure in his gut from both directions shook and jostled with every bounce. He focused on his cock. Hips arched, eyes closed, nearly there, nearly there. He needed a thought, some fantasy to cut through the —

He came, remembering the sensations of ice and clean carbonation in his mouth.

"Mmph!" He made himself swallow.

Clark gasped, went still, and spurted come all over his aching belly. It landed hot and wet.

Bruce gave him a few seconds. They stared at each other. Bruce panted. Finally, Clark shifted his weight.

"Get that thing out of me." Bruce remembered his manners. "Please."

He grunted in relief when Clark pulled the plug out past his overstretched rim. Removing one source of excess volume let him find some ease. His body felt like it had been churned.

He lay silently, sprawled open, staring at the ceiling, as Clark traced sticky designs across his abs. He might be able to sleep through the next week of recovery. That sounded attractive.

Clark loomed over him to lick chocolate from his mouth in long, lingering kisses. Then he sighed. "I should get you some water."

"Take your time."

He hesitated. "Are you sure? I don't . . ."

"I'm not getting any stickier." Bruce tugged at Clark's shoulder, encouraging him to lie down. "No rush."

Clark blurred around the room. The melting dessert dishes vanished, and he was holding a freshly fizzing club soda. " _Now_ there's no rush."

He settled in with his cheek against Bruce's hair and a thumb resting lightly against his throat. He moved the straw barely within reach of Bruce's lips.

"Might stay here quite a while."

## 🍨 🌙

**Author's Note:**

> [[[ Contains:  
> \- Emphasis on comfort foods as personal connection and varied sensual experience  
> \- Consensual hand feeding to repeated discomfort and feeling nauseous  
> \- Increasing pushes to keep eating through discomfort  
> \- Breaking fed person's tightly controlled routine diet (and details of that diet)  
> \- Fed person does not share the kink or feel submissive, but takes it seriously as a one-time intimacy  
> \- Malicious pleasure at choosing some unpleasant or overwhelming foods  
> \- Briefly holding full mouth closed, light breathplay  
> \- Fisting with food as lube, oral sex, and cock riding with uncomfortably full person  
> \- Gentle caretaking with tummy rubs and rest breaks
> 
> Does _not_ contain: force-feeding, eating to pain or danger, emetophilia (everything stays down), gaining, repeated feeding habit, insults, eating anything that is not food. All of which are fine subjects of fetishization, but absent here. ]]]  
> Teleport to top note ↑
> 
> * * *
> 
>  _fighaoliur_ = "bake"+"device" or, as I like to think of it, a cookerator. Vocabulary mashed together from [Kryptonian.info](http://kryptonian.info/doyle/transliterator.html?word=fighaoliur).
> 
> As this is not my kink (but this iteration of Clark suddenly had Strong Feelings about it), if you are into it and either like what I did here or feel that I've done the subject a disservice, I hope you will let me know.


End file.
